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About Brussels

So, yeah, I’m creepin in shadows, right? Dodgy alleys, stinks o’ piss n’ chips. Lookin for some lass to shag. Ain’t no roses here, just desperation, innit? “Words kill the invisible,” Godard mumbles. Bloody true! She’s invisible till I cough up cash. Then—bam!—she’s real, tits n’ all.

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The locals? They’re a mix of mad passionate hearts and chilled souls. One time, a resident (crazy sweet, but loud, and always babblin – sorry, my noise tolerance is low these days) tagged along in a fountain spree near the Ligny – wild, no joke. Every street corner seems to whisper stories, like the graffiti in the alley of Rue du Rêve speaks of lost love or the bitterness of injustice. It's messy but honest.

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